


Sad and Bougie

by wacklit



Category: DCU (Comics), Impulse (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Superboy (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types, Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modeling AU, NO CAPES, walk walk fashion baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12752841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wacklit/pseuds/wacklit
Summary: Tim's not-so-luxurious life as a model.





	Sad and Bougie

**Author's Note:**

> What the hell is this? I don't know. I hope you enjoy!

Tim Drake stares at the watch on his wrist blankly. If he had it his way, he would pout, frown, or even scowl at the time, but he knows better. He’s in public at the moment and a sad face on camera would be enough to break news from a plausible _Tim has a bad day_ to the scandalous _Tim has an illegitimate child._

Plus, frowning gives you wrinkles, not as quickly as smiling does but wrinkles nonetheless. And Tim doesn't need any more premature aging done to his face. He’s got enough to worry about at the moment, like how the weather is currently making his hair frizz, and the time of day is just another reminder of his pressed schedule.

He’s got a meeting at two for a potential contract. There was a show for next spring and the designer wanted him and two other models, close friends of his, to walk for her. They’d worked with her before on her winter collection, and she wanted to make sure they would be there again. The meeting was in Jersey, conveniently enough for Tim, so all he had to do was wait.

His friends had agreed to meet Tim for brunch before the meeting, but it was almost noon and they were late.

Tim checks both his phones for any messages. When he doesn’t see any notifications from either, he sends a text to the group chat on his personal phone asking them where they are.

He stares down at the message for a second and when it’s delivered, but unread, he looks back up at the time and sighs.

The waitress comes around to check up on him again.

“Un autre Perrier, Monsieur Drake?” she offers, looking apologetic at the two empty chairs.

Tim glances at the bottle of seltzer in front of him. It’s been there, along with a cheese platter and fresh bread, the moment he was seated almost thirty minutes ago. All this waiting is making him a little thirsty and he suddenly remembers how much his nutritionist stressed staying hydrated. But his friends hate it when he starts _anything_ before them more than Tim hates it when they’re late, so he just shakes his head and thanks her.

Tim taps his fingers on the table and catches himself before he can frown at the state of his nails. He needed a buffing soon, he decides, and just as he pulls out his work phone to text his manicurist, he hears tires screeching and the slow rising of a song rounding off the corner where the bistro is. He's sure of who it is without having to look.

A red sports car parks with a skid, music still blaring, and from it two boys come out that Tim is presently ashamed to call his best friends.

He looks down from his seat on the balcony to see Bart swing the keys of his Bugatti to the valet. From the street, Kon pushes his round Ray-Bans up to his hair and looks up at Tim, who keeps his own sunglasses over his eyes and shakes his head when Kon gives him a salutatory middle finger.

He counts the seconds it takes Bart and Kon to race up the steps. Bart's faster, but Kon's stride is larger so it appears to be a tie. As they get closer to the table, Tim considers their outfits and wonders if this is what kept them from being here on time.

Bart has his hair held back by Tom Ford amber-lensed sunglasses and is sporting a red Under Armour thermal over a pair of mesh PINK joggers and red shell toes. Kon is dressed in a plain white t-shirt under a vintage leather jacket that might have been thrifted. He was also wearing a distressed pair of jeans that were _definitely_ thrifted, tucked into black leather boots from Burberry. Tim knows they're designer because all three of them had received the same complimentary pair after doing a shoot for Burberry. The only difference being that Kon's were about five sizes larger than Tim's, a fact Bart was delighted to point out.

" _You know what they say about big feet_ ," he'd said at the shoot, winking over a bite of his banana.

Tim shakes the memory off and looks on at the sight of his friends with a weary eye. Bart’s tendency to play brand jenga with his outfits and Kon’s adamancy on bringing the nineties back were nothing short of unsettling. Tim doesn’t even want to think about what Bruce would do if he ever mixed logos or bought anything already worn before.

“ _Finally_ ,” Tim says by way of greeting and reaches for his Perrier. The humidity makes sweat bead on the green glass so he wipes it on his napkin before twisting it open and taking a sip.

“Hello to you too.” Kon grins and gives him a wink. Something stirs in Tim's stomach that he chalks up to the carbonated water.

“Ugh.” Bart grimaces at the meager appetizers on the table. “You didn't order yet? They better bring the food out quick.”

“Yeah,” Kon says, looking around. He puts his sunglasses back down before pulling a chair. “I’m starvin'.”

“What took you guys so long?” Tim asks, setting his drink down.

“Please, I’m pretty and all, but do you really think I wake up lookin’ like this?” Kon says, running a hand through his blow out. Kon did actually wake up looking unfairly gorgeous. He's the only model Tim knows who barely needs two minutes in front of the mirror, even though he ends up taking more than two hours.

“Yeah, Tim,” Bart nods, snapping his bubblegum viciously. He peers over from across the table and wrinkles his nose. “What were we supposed to do? Show up dressed like you?”

“What’s wrong with how I'm dressed?” Tim looks down at his own outfit, careful again not to frown. He’s wearing a pressed shirt tucked into slacks and a Ferragamo suede belt with matching loafers. Basic? Maybe. But not wrong by any means.

“Seriously, Tim, what are you wearing?” Kon tuts and gives him an unimpressed once-over from his seat.

“What are _you_ wearing?” Tim replies indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Bart takes a long look at Kon like he's just noticed what he's wearing. He then cringes and says, “Jeez, what _are_ you wearing, Kon?”

“What—?” Kon starts, blindsided, before sighing. He settles back into his seat, arms over his head. “Man, whatever. I’m fresh.”

“Fresh?” Tim repeats, “You’re wearing second— maybe _third_ hand clothes from the salvation army.”

“Well, where else am I supposed to get my nineties gear?” Kon says against the wind currently tussling his hair. A stray curl gets flipped to the wrong side of his part and Tim has to sit on his hands to prevent himself from fixing it.

“Yuck.” Bart gags again, pointing his index finger inside of his open mouth. “Why don’t you go build a time machine and just stay there? Stop talking about being born in the wrong decade, you fuckboy.”

“I’m not a fuckboy.” He scowls and looks to Tim for reassuring. When he shows no inclination of helping, Kon rolls his eyes and reaches for a small bundle of grapes on the cheese platter. “I’m telling you guys, the nineties are everything.”

“ _Were_ everything.” Tim corrects.

Kon scowls while chewing and then flicks the stem at Tim.

Bart sets his cheek in a propped hand and plays with his chewing gum, winding it around his finger absentmindedly, “Seriously, the nineties are so…twenty years ago. God, I wasn’t even _born_ back then.”

Kon shakes his head and stops talking but would never stop his life-long mission to bring the nineties back. It wasn’t as bad as Bart made it, and Tim actually found Kon's efforts endearing, but when it was all he would talk about, it became tiring.

“He’s right, Kon. It’s getting old…- _er_.”

“ _Oh_ , Tim," Bart gasps and slams a palm on the table, Tim winces as he mentally prepares himself for an impending headache.

"You don’t even want to know what he did in the car. Oh my god, you’re gonna die. Okay, so I picked him up from his hotel and when he got inside my car he said the song that was playing sucked so I'm like change it, you know, like it’s not my fault Gotham has shitty radio stations, right?”

Tim knows Bart won't continue until he agrees, so he takes a second not to be too offended and nods begrudgingly.

“So anyways, he says bet and you know what he does? Good Lord,” Bart covers his mouth with a hand and takes it off to whisper, “He opens his bag and pulls out a—a,” he chokes. “I can’t even say it.”

Kon is entirely unamused with Bart's melodramatic performance, but snorts anyway. “Alright, drama queen, relax, it's just a CD. And c'mon, it was NSYNC.”

“ _Christ_ ,” Bart screams, flailing his arms and slapping his hands over his ears. He's amassed a growing audience and needs to keep them captivated.

Tim is meticulous to show as little interest as possible, not because he's entertained by Bart calling Kon out for being a tool, but because people are starting to take pictures.

“I almost crashed, I swear to God. It was like in Baby Driver when he killed Jamie Foxx,”

“What?”

“Baby Driver? That car movie with Ansel Something and Cinderella.”

“Haven't seen it.”

“Oh god, of _course_ you haven’t. You probably only watch movies on VCR or whatever.”

"You mean VHS?"

"Jesus."

Bart stops gagging, just in time for others to stop staring at his exaggerated phobia of anything out of style. Bart lived for the future. He tired of trends quickly and was constantly looking for the latest fad. He blew his entire paycheck the moment he got it and never wore the same clothes twice. Really. Tim's been shopping with Bart once and watched him go into the stores wearing one outfit and come out dressed in completely a different one at least fifteen times. Tim wonders what happened with the clothes, whether Bart just left them on the fitting room floor or if he actually threw them in the garbage behind the counters along with the tags.

Kon only wears thrifted clothing and exclusively shops at Goodwill and Plato's Closet. Even the gifts he receives from designers, he washes a few times and asks his friends to wear out for him. But Kon is also a hoarder who never gets rid of anything even though he wears pretty much the same outfit everyday. 

Tim is a minimalist who preferred building a wardrobe of timeless pieces and neutral colors. Something that would outlast an entire century's worth of fads. Kon and Bart call it boring, Tim calls it classic.

The waitress comes back with Kon and Bart’s waters, which Kon accepts but Bart rejects in favor of lemonade.

She nods and is gone for almost a full minute. Bart points this out impatiently when she returns and the waitress apologizes fervently while he idly pulls the gum out of his mouth and sticks it under the table.

“ _Citron press_ _é_ ,” She announces and presents a tray on the table. There’s a pitcher of ice water, a separate pitcher of lemon juice, a plate of sliced lemons, oranges, and limes, a sugar bowl, and three small jars of honey to accompany each glass. Tim looks appreciatively at the tray and—since Bart clearly doesn’t have any manners—thanks the waitress for him.

“The French are so extra,” Bart remarks, fishing out the sprig of mint in his glass and tossing it off the balcony.

Tim has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his face from twisting into a full on glare. His friends have a way of making him lose his composure and almost forget about the paranoia spinning the potential headlines in his head.

"What?" Bart says innocently, "This city's a dump, anyway."

Tim swallows his pride. Gotham is what it is, they don't have to make it worse.

“Sure is. Who’s idea was it to eat here?” Kon says, pouring Perrier down his own glass.

Tim wants to remind them that it was _Kon’s_ idea to eat here and Bart’s suggestion to have brunch at a bistro because he was missing Paris. And how he’d appreciate it if they didn’t make plans, show up late, and then complain about them. Actually, he’d appreciate it if his friend’s did a lot of things differently. From the way Bart demands for a menu in English to the way Kon asks for the waitress’ number even though she's got a ring on her finger.

As Bart loads his glass with yet another spoonful of sugar, Tim can't help but think about the first time they met. Four years ago, extremely early into both of their careers, a company reached out to Tim requesting a look-book for a small boutique with only eight other locations in the nation. They flew Bart in from St. Louis because the brand decided they needed someone with a different look to model a few of the outfits along with Tim. He remembers the tragic red and white jumper Bart was wearing to their shoot. His big mouth and bigger appetite. How Tim barely had time to get his own introduction in before Bart started introducing himself and how Bart ate everything at craft service, even the lemon poppy muffins he said sucked.

When Tim thinks of kids from the Midwest, he thinks of quaint little homes with nuclear families consisting of a mother, a father, and two kids. He doesn’t think of Bart, the only child of a broken family, who cycles between living with his grandparents in Missouri, his uncle in Alabama, and his boyfriend in Texas.

Tim also doesn’t think of Kon, a mixed kid from Kansas who has two dads but stays with his aunt.

Every time Tim asked about Kon’s past, he's met with guarded body language and vague responses. What he knows for sure is that Kon grew up in some small town in Kansas and set out to meet his dads in Delaware when he turned sixteen. From what Tim’s _heard_ , when he met them they both rejected him, or he rejected them both, or one rejected him but he rejected the other. Tim isn't sure, but it has to be some variation of those possibilities. What he also knows is that Kon was originally born Connor but changed his name when he moved out to Hawaii, both to pursue a modeling career and get as far away from his dads without a passport.

His name, now stylized as Kon, is almost as big as his ego. He makes a terrible first impression of himself and acts like people should feel honored just to exist in the same era as him. He's cocky, conceited and extremely difficult to work with. It’s not at all what Tim expects from someone who grew up in Nowhere Land, Kansas, but he's met worse.

After the waitress translates the entire menu to Bart, with him make disgusted faces at every other dish, he orders the duck confit, steak frites, and ratatouille, Kon gets the cassoulet, and Tim has a salad. The waitress nods and disappears again.

Bart and Kon pull their phones out and become preoccupied with them for a while. Tim pulls out his own phone and pretends to be engrossed in it and tries not to feel neglected when neither of them reply or even acknowledge his text from before.

Suddenly Bart looks around, frowning, “What the hell? It’s been like, three minutes. Where the fuck is our food?”

Kon doesn’t look up from his own phone but nods, and continues scrolling and double tapping and playing videos with the volume all the way up. Oh, that’s nice, Tim thinks. They’ve not only taken the liberty of disregarding Tim’s message in the group chat, but also Tim’s presence at the table. Lovely.

Bart sighs and lets his phone fall on the table abruptly. “I miss Jaime,”

Tim doesn’t care too much but he at least has the decency to look sympathetic.

“Same. I miss Cassie.” Kon says, staring at another waitress shamelessly. Tim stops looking sympathetic.

He takes a deep breath and convinces himself he’s perfectly fine with being single and he doesn’t have a crush on Kon and how that’s a good thing because Kon isn’t gay and how even if Kon was gay Tim wouldn’t want to be in a relationship with him because Kon would just flirt with other women while Tim wasn't around.

For someone who allegedly misses his girlfriend, Kon lets his phone ring several times before declining the FaceTime call from Cassie. Tim feels terrible for the small pang of satisfaction it gives him.

Sometimes he wonders if Kon does these things on purpose. Because Tim knows Kon is a lot more than the empty-headed arm candy he's perceived as, and sometimes Kon looks at Tim like he's got him figured out, like he knows about his little crush and is daring him to confront it. To bait him, in a way. During those times, though, Tim can do nothing but look detached and wait for Kon's attention to drift towards something safer.

Bart turns back to his phone and snapchats Jaime.

"Baby, I miss you," Bart pouts into his camera and shows him the view from where he's sitting.

Unlike Jaime, who lives in Texas, and Cassie, who lives in California, Tim is currently _here_. And while he's not as attention-hungry as his friends, he doesn't particularly enjoy being ignored, so it would really do them all good if they _stopped_ missing them and _started_ noticing Tim. Kon strikes up a conversation with Bart about the song that was playing on their way here. Tim sits silently and swallows the words threatening their way up his throat. He takes a look around and considers the merits of throwing himself off the balcony. Sure, he might die, but he also might have their attention.

They settle when the food arrives and no one speaks again until they’re mostly done. Bart is always the first to finish, even though he has the most food to eat. While he waits for Tim and Kon to catch up, he likes to do what he dubs _cleating_.

“ _It’s like cleaning, but by eating. Cleating_.” Bart once explained over dinner after he'd licked his bowl of soup clean.

Bart is in the middle of tearing a piece of bread in two and using it to soak up the rest of his duck confit when Kon asks, equal parts stunned and disgusted. “I just wanna know where it all goes, man. Where do you put it?”

Bart chews, swallows, and shrugs. Then uses his teeth to pull the last of the duck off its bone and flings it on his plate with a loud clank.

“This food kinda sucks,” Bart decides, wiping his fork on his tongue.

“Yeah,” Kon admits, burping into his fist. He looks repulsed at the white plates and utensils Bart cleaned with his own saliva.

"Next time, we're eating Mexican food—"

“Are you guys done?” Tim asks. He stops dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin to check his watch on the same hand. “We need to be there before two.”

Bart and Kon both give him stale looks. He knows they're about to tell him to shut up and quit killing the vibe. He's waiting for it, he's got a comeback planned for that, too.

Kon pulls his jacket sleeve up to check the time himself, "Chill. We still got—aw, shit."

Tim doesn't have to peek at Kon's Rolex to know it's still running on HST and hasn't changed it to EST. 

"Damn. Guess I need me a new Rollie." He says, now twisting the Cartier love bands on his fingers.

Bart nods enthusiastically and unlocks his Apple Watch, tapping away, "I wanna get a watch for like, every timezone." 

"Me too," Kon says, "That way I'd just take that watch with me when I travel."

"Why don't you adjust the time on it instead?" Tim suggests rationally.

Bart and Kon freeze. Tim is unconcerned with their reaction. They're acting like he'd just asked to fuck their fathers.

"What are you, broke or somethin'?"

Tim sighs and looks back at his own watch: a genuine-leather strapped analog clock from an artisan in London. "We're going to be late."

Bart rolls his eyes up to the cloudy sky and groans. He always complained about how slow everyone else was going, but hated to be rushed. “What’s this dumb meeting for anyway?”

Tim knows the question is harmless and not meant to insult him, but it stings just the same.

Tim's too short to do runway, both him and Bart are, so when he's selected to walk—and Bruce lets him—it's always a treat. Kon's just the height though, so he'll probably end up getting more exposure during and after the show. Unlike Tim, Kon is an independent model with no one to answer to. He has no permanent residence and bounces around from suite to suite. While Bruce only allowed Tim to do strictly local things in Jersey, Kon was unrepresented could venture out to Europe and Asia if he pleased. It wouldn't take long for Kon to realize that he's settling by staying here and Tim won't hold it against him because he already feels like he's holding Kon back. And he knows it's ridiculous to think so, but this just might be the last show they all walk in and neither of them care as much as Tim does.

 “ _Spring, twenty-eighteen_.” Tim enunciates, reminding him of the weight of this dumb meeting. He sets the napkin down and doesn't even try to hide his disappointment.

“Yeah, I know _that_.” Bart snaps, staring back at Tim like he'd just stepped on his shoes. “But what are we going to _do_ there? Like, are we just gonna sit around and talk about the clothes and stuff?”

“Oh,” Tim says, blinking. “Yeah, probably. I don't know. It’s most likely going to be contract signings and setting up dates for the fittings or something.”

“Any idea what we’re gonna wear? At the show, I mean.” Kon says, fumbling with his earring.

Tim squints and tries to remember, he catches Kon lick his lips after a sip of lemonade, then quickly makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “Kinda. She wouldn’t give away too many details, but I know it’s going to feature a lot of fringe and pink and rubber.”

 Kon rubs the underside of his jaw, unmoved. "I already knew that. I was asking about the actual clothes."

Bart hums thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “What shade of pink?”

“ _Millennial_ pink,” Kon scoffs from his glass, “Whatever the fuck that is.”

“Watch your mouth,” Tim murmurs. He nods discreetly to the table across the veranda. There are two men with poorly hidden cameras, staring straight at them.

Kon squeezes his fist around the glass and turns his head to give them both a dirty look. Which was strange, Tim thinks, because Kon loved being photographed and had a habit of calling the paparazzi on himself.

When Kon turns back around, he finishes the last of his drink and sighs.

“I love being famous, but it kinda sucks.”

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH TIM


End file.
